


Waters of Brokilon

by Kyla_Wren



Series: The Immortal Bard [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Wren/pseuds/Kyla_Wren
Summary: Geralt never questioned why Jaskier’s looks remained unchanged over the first decade of their travels.What if Jaskier was blessed with unnaturally long life, just like Geralt and Yennefer?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Immortal Bard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611214
Comments: 54
Kudos: 933





	Waters of Brokilon

Geralt never questioned why Jaskier’s looks remained unchanged over the first decade of their travels. He wasn’t skilled at guessing the ages of humans. Like dogs, their time passed so quickly. How old had the bard been when they met? Twenty? Thirty? And now - who could say. He looked good. The Witcher chalked it up to the man’s sunny disposition. In this line of work he met score after score of wizened peasants, whose hard lives and harder work left deep lines on their leathered faces. A town alderman who paid him his coin could be a man of thirty-five and look twice that age.

Jaskier, though, lived in perpetual starlight and sunshine. For every scrape he found himself in, for every unkind audience that jeered his performance, he had the unnatural ability to spring back up like a blade of grass pressed by the wind. He could take a punch in the gut and stand up singing. The years left no mark.

Though Geralt was blessed (or cursed, he might have said) with many more days than humans had, they passed at the same even pace in his perception. For many years his memory blended the small towns, the bad weather, the coldness of strangers and the bloody endless struggle with monsters. When Jaskier had finally joined him to sojourn the countryside - and yes, his mind supplied the _finally_ \- his memory started to differentiate the days. He started to remember specific dates in specific places. Monsters and men and music, all crystalized. It had to be the songs, he told himself.

When Jaskier composed the stories of their adventures, wildly overblown as they were, they helped the Witcher remember. He could name everything he and the bard had faced together. The order of things was locked in his mind, with music to match. Sometimes he would run through them at night before he slept. He would often linger on a memory that had made him chuckle, usually Jaskier making a fool of himself, and try not to dwell on any that were too unpleasant. 

The avoided thought, the one he would never look at head-on, was that he _had_ to remember these adventures. Jaskier was mortal. Someday he would be gone, and Geralt would never hear his voice singing again. He would have to press on, as he always had, as every friend and ally he managed to scrounge up in this heartless world was carried away by old age or violent death.

“Geralt? Are you sleeping? ...Geralt?”

The Witcher opened his eyes. The bards face swam into view above his head, anxious face illuminated by firelight. Geralt’s grim musings couldn’t hold up against such irritating tactics.

“Hm.” He grunted, remaining perfectly still. Jaskier was always wasting energy and body heat, moving around with copious gestures. Geralt knew to save his kinetic power for when it was warranted.

“We’re out of water.”

The Witcher flicked his gaze to the saddlebags. They had plenty when he went to sleep, leaving his companion to chew on a quill and summon his muses late into the night.

“I’ve spilt it,” Jaskier admitted, making an expression half-way between guilty and put-upon. “You left it open by the fire.”

Geralt sat up with a sigh.

“Or perhaps I did. All in the past, no use crying over spilt water and all that. I only mention it because you told me never to collect water at night alone. After last time.”

“Good. Don’t.” Geralt slept in full armor when they were out on the road, so it was easy enough to throw aside the thin blanket and be ready. “We’re near Brokilon Forest. If you went in there looking for a stream you’d be shot on sight.”

Jaskier let out a strange laugh, moving his hand as if to sweep something away. “Waters of Brokilon? I’ve had _more_ than enough of those, thank you. No danger of that.”

The Witcher halted, looking down at the bard with a frown. “What?”

Jaskier was doing that thing he did with his tongue, prodding at the corner of his mouth. Geralt knew he did it when he was searching for the right thing to say. It was… distracting.

“Well, I’ve been there before. I would have written quite an excellent song about it, but the water does quite a number on your memory, so it’s all a bit fuzzy.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows. Jasker knew him well enough to read paragraphs of intent behind it. 

“All I remember is the dryads took a fancy to me. I must have played them a song they really enjoyed. They gave me a lot to drink (and that’s coming from me, mind you), and I’ve been this way ever since.”

The Witcher found himself very close to the bard. Tension was making him _loom_ , he knew, but Jaskier never carried the scent of fear no matter how much Geralt crowded him.

“Been what way?”

Now the shorter man was giving him an appraising look, like Geralt had sustained a recent head wound. “Like _this_. For years now. Geralt, that was over seventy years ago, do you understand?”

A few things triggered in the Witcher’s memory. One, the time Jaskier had told him of his extended residency at Oxenfurt Academy, a place Geralt had avoided for at least a century. Two, the fact that Jaskier knew quite a lot of old folk songs by heart. Hundreds of them, it sometimes felt like (and always the worst ones). Three, that often the number of dalliances the bard purported to have enjoyed seemed out of proportion to his age.

“You’ve never mentioned this before.”

Jaskier squinted his blue eyes. “Was I supposed to? You never talk about your age, nor does Yennefer.”

Geralt had to turn away, starting his steps to the nearest spring. A smile was spreading across his face that he would have had a hard time explaining if the bard saw it. It could even be described as a _grin_.

“Besides,” Jaskier continued, tromping after him and making a great deal more noise in the underbrush. “Even if I had told you earlier, there’s no way you would have paid attention.”

“I pay attention,” Geralt rumbled.

_I_ _remember everything you’ve ever said._

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm. I love them.
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment! I love fellow Witcher people <3 <3


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